


Peace Shatters

by diemarysues



Series: Three [7]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Hospitals, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is me responding to alkjira's mention of angst in this 'verse, and twisting it to near canon?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace Shatters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alkjira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alkjira/gifts).



> warning for mention of death.

Bilbo finds that he cannot sit where he is.

 

The cafeteria is large and bustling, even at this hour. The walls are brightly painted and lacked windows; falsely cheerful. It’s enough to make Bilbo sick, even if the sausage roll set in front of him isn’t doing a good job of that already.

 

To be frank, every item on the menu looks and smells sickly. Possibly a ploy to get more people into the hospital for treatment.

 

Across the hall, most people present look tired and/or terrified. Only a few seem to be genuinely calm. One man seems to be unaware of the tears falling into his pea soup; just a couple of tables down a woman is trying to calm her companion, but Bilbo is able to hear enough of the rant to learn that transplant waiting lists are too long.

 

Bilbo cannot sit here. But he must.

 

Oh, yes, he has other options. He can sit in the noisier lobby, in the echoing stairwell, or in the silence of the car park. Hell, he can go _home_.

 

But that is beside the point. He wants to be – he wants to be by Dwalin’s side, by that bed, but there are stupid policies in place about only ‘family’ being allowed to visit and Bilbo –

 

Well, he isn’t family.

 

Bilbo pushes away his untouched plate. Even as he feels guilty for wasting food, he wishes that he’d had the ability to pack some of the leftovers in the fridge, or even make something from scratch. Dwalin would’ve… he would’ve appreciated it.

 

He dabs at his eyes with his monogrammed handkerchief, trying to sniffle as quietly as possible. It’s not that he’s a stickler for keeping his emotions in check while in the open (although it’s an ability he should hone more often, considering that he kind of is a public figure). He just doesn’t want anyone to approach him. He isn’t sure whether he’d be ruthlessly rude to any stranger that tried to poke into his business, or if he’d sob into their shoulder and tell them the entire story. Neither sounds appealing.

 

A hand lands on his shoulder.

 

It’s Balin. He looks unbelievably exhausted, and Bilbo can’t help but think that it’s been awhile since they last saw each other. Every strand of Balin’s hair – on his head and in his usually-well-kept beard – is completely white.

 

“You can go in now, lad.”

 

Bilbo’s heart soars, and then plummets. “Why now?” Why have the hospital staff suddenly changed their minds?

 

What had happened?

 

The fingers on his shoulder tighten. “He’s asking for you.”

 

* * *

 

Almost as soon as Bilbo enters the room, he takes Dwalin’s hand in his smaller one. It’s cold.

 

“How are you?” he asks quietly, and the lack of a reply is telling enough.

 

Bilbo tries not to let his face crumple.

 

He wonders if Fate or God or whatever omniscient being, if it exists, gets tired of happiness. It would kind of explain why, after all the good that has happened in his life, everything had now gone straight to hell. Everything.

 

Blinking the tears from his eyes, Bilbo sits on the bed, reaching blindly across the covers with his free hand to clasp Thorin’s. There is no reaction.

 

“I thought… I thought he was awake.”

 

The reply is given in a cracked, hoarse voice. “He was. Keeps coming in and out of it.”

 

Bilbo shivers. It’s hard to breathe. He can’t help but be reminded of when he’d last been in similar circumstances. His father’s diabetes had bested him – it seemed like only moments later that his mother succumbed to her cancer. That’d been years ago, though; his father had died in ’85 and his mother in ’91. And at least the circumstances of their deaths had been natural. This…

 

This is unfair.

 

He finds himself pulled from his perch on the bed, enfolded in a sure grip, but he doesn’t loose the hand in his. He feels like it’s his only lifeline to sanity – and feels the tears track down his face.

 

He’s hushed, but not unkindly. “Crying isn’t going to help, Bilbo.”

 

The huge palm that smoothes down his back does not soothe him. “It’s something to do,” Bilbo replies thickly, bitter. “The insinuation that cr – that crying is weak is –”

 

“I never said that.” A kiss is pressed to his hair. “It’s just that… seeing you cry makes me want to cry too.”

 

Bilbo pulls back just enough to gaze into blue eyes. They were reddened, but not wet. Come to think of it, he’d never seen them wet.

 

“You should,” he says, trying for coaxing but sounding stilted instead. Bilbo clears his throat. “It’ll, it’ll make you feel better.”

 

“No.”

 

He frowns at the clear dismissal. “Don’t –”

 

“I’ll cry if and when it’s necessary. Not now.” A shuddering breath that makes Bilbo’s heart twinge. “Not while there’s still hope that –”

 

A third voice interrupts their conversation. “Bilbo?” It’s weak and wan, almost a whisper.

 

The tears resurface when fingers slowly curl around his. “I’m here,” he says, blinking rapidly. He wills his voice to stay strong, and steady. “I’m here, and so is Dwalin.”

 

Dwalin lets Bilbo slip from his grip so they can be closer to Thorin; Bilbo returns to sitting on the bed, while Dwalin pushes his chair close enough that his knees dig into the mattress.

 

Thorin’s gaze is worryingly unfocused. His smile is genuine, although it must hurt to stretch his split lip. They share a moment of silence and Bilbo is glad for it; he doesn’t know what will happen if he tries to speak, if he’d end up sobbing instead. Dwalin carefully reaches out and pushes an unruly lock of hair behind Thorin’s ear.

 

But that tiny moment of peace shatters.

 

“I’m sorry,” Thorin says, smile slipping.

 

“For what?” The question is aggressive, and Dwalin only drops his glare when Bilbo kicks him in the shin.

 

“For doing this. For ending up here.” With every word Thorin grows more and more coherent. A relief, even if those words are worrying. “For putting my pride before anything – and everyone – else.”

 

Bilbo had been shaking his head from the middle of this _idiotic_ speech. “Don’t be silly.” He forces his tone to light and airy. “You couldn’t have known.”

 

Dwalin nods, agreeing. “None of us knew who he was. T’wasn’t your fault.”

 

“But I should have known.” Thorin sits stiff-backed on the bed; if he hadn’t looked so terrible, Bilbo and Dwalin would’ve thought he was back to normal. But he wasn’t. “I was blind for not realising sooner that it was Azog.”

 

Just the mention of the name has Bilbo shaking – this time from head to toe. He’d been the one to find Thorin’s fallen body. He’d been the one to stand over it, weaponless as Azog laughed and laughed, advancing menacingly.

 

If Dwalin hadn’t run in and knocked the madman out, maybe Bilbo would be beside Thorin in a different sense of the word.

 

Bilbo opens his mouth and chokes on the words. He desperately rallies, fighting against tears, and says, “I don’t want you to die.”

 

“I can’t promise that I won’t,” Thorin says, very gentle.

 

“Then lie,” Dwalin snaps.

 

“No.” He’s shaking his head. “Not about this.”

 

Bilbo picks up Thorin’s hand and presses the palm of it to his cheek. “You didn’t have to confront him. Not on your own.”

 

“He murdered my grandfather.” Thorin inhales deeply. “And that drove my father mad in turn.”

 

“We don’t have to rehash the past. You were an idiot. A _fucking_ idiot.” Dwalin’s voice is tight, like he’s barely holding on to his control. “And because of that you’re hurt and we can’t do _anything_ –”

 

“Dwalin, please –”

 

“No.” To Bilbo’s shock and horror, a tear slips down Dwalin’s cheek. “ _No_. You have no idea what we’re going through. The doctors, they said – they said that you’re not in the clear but they can’t help any more. Do you know what that means? Do you even care?”

 

Thorin is paler than he had been when Bilbo had walked into the hospital room. “I never meant –”

 

“You never do.” Dwalin hides his face in his hand. “Thorin. We’ve already lost so, so many people and I – we _can’t_ lose you. We can’t. I love you so much it hurts and I –”

 

Bilbo’s hand is half-stretched towards Dwalin when the machines go haywire. It’s a cacophony of beeps and screeches, and then he’s bundled into Dwalin’s arms, being forced to the far corner of the room, watching as the doctors and nurses work in efficient franticness.

 

Thorin breathes.

 

And then he does not.

**Author's Note:**

> whether death actually happened is up to you.
> 
> unbetaed, rushed.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Peace Restored](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088525) by [alkjira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alkjira/pseuds/alkjira)




End file.
